


Leisure for Pleasure

by everidite



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 13:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15390186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everidite/pseuds/everidite
Summary: Because, let's face it, even the Champion of Kirkwall needs some time off.





	Leisure for Pleasure

“Fenris?”

“Hm.”

“Care to teach me how you do what you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your all high-and-mighty broodiness that successfully keeps people at least ten feet away, cowering in fear of your ever-present glares.”

Fenris looked up from his book, turning his head to Hawke, half expecting he would catch her staring with that smug, cheeky grin plastered on her face, the one she had thrown him on so many occasions that he'd lost count. But apparently, this time he was mistaken.

Inside her library, Hawke was still perched on the edge of her desk like she had been since half an hour ago, legs crossed, eyes fixated on the papers on her hand. Her brows furrowed, a slight crease on her forehead as she skimmed through each paper, signaling she was, at least, not in her most jovial mood.

Quite unexpected.

All the same, it wasn’t difficult to guess what was bothering her. “Another invitations?” Fenris asked, noticing the stack of opened envelopes with wax seals on top of the desk.

Hawke merely pouted and exhaled a sharp sigh, the blown air made a strand of her bangs bounced upwards. There was his answer.

“Save a city once and suddenly everyone asks you for a cookie,” she drawled, lips twisted into a frown. “I mean, it’s been _three_ years. Do these people have nothing else to do in their pastime?”

“You could always decline,” he pointed out dryly. To Fenris’ knowledge, Hawke had declined a few invitations now and then—some of them due to her going out on missions, others when she had been injured from the said missions or thoroughly exhausted.

But mostly was because she simply "didn’t feel like it" (her words), thus resulting in a number of made-up reasons which often went more and more bizarre as time went by. What baffled him was the fact that none of the nobilities ever questioned her excuses and went along with it.

“True,” Hawke said, finally setting the invitations aside. She leaned her back against the wall behind her, slumping down on the wooden desk. “Doesn’t stop more invitations from coming in, though.”

“In that case, my sympathies.”

“ _Thank you_ for the support.”

“When’s the nearest event?” Fenris asked, nodding at the invitations.

Hawke paused to look over at him for a few seconds, before finally gave a sheepish smile. “Tonight.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Tonight,” he repeated, flatly.

“Yeah.”

“And you still haven’t given any confirmation.”

She huffed a long, exasperated sigh. “I’ve been meaning not to attend. It’s those de Launcets again! I am _not_ spending hours in the same room with Fifi and Babbette again—not now, not ever. And Maker knows I’m sick of having to listen to the Comtess' ramblings about Emile.” Hawke shook her head, crossing her arms, and clicked her tongue in annoyance. “The way she talks about him as if he’s this sweet, innocent son or whatever. Wait until she knows what a pathetic little nughead this ‘innocent’ son of hers actually is.”

Come to think of it, Fenris thought to himself: as pissed as Hawke was, it was amusing to see her behaving like this—pouting her lips like a sulking five year-old and scowling at the stack of invitations as if they had screamed something nasty to her face. Very much in contrast to her usual carefree, laid-back demeanor and penchant to treat almost everything as a joke, even at sword’s point or amid muddy crawling corpses.

Quite curiously, he also found it endearing.

He wondered if this was also what Hawke had in mind every time she decided to tease him incessantly whenever he was sulking to himself over something that went awry during one of their adventures with the others, or the one time she had tricked him into reading one of Isabela’s book collections. That particular unfortunate incident had happened only a week ago on another reading session which had taken place at Fenris’ mansion.

That time, he had, rather embarrassingly, came across one of the most… _horrifyingly_ explicit paragraph he had ever read out loud. He wasn’t sure what kind of face he had made back then, but whatever it had been, it had made Hawke laugh and laugh and _laugh_ uncontrollably—shoulders shaking, hands clutching her stomach, tears forming at the corners of her eyes—all that.

He had made her promise not to do anything like that under any occasion ever again. And she had agreed, even though it had only taken another two bottles of wine, which somehow had led to the two of them getting tangled up in heavy kisses, with Fenris pressed against the back of his seat and Hawke straddling his lap, the entire reading session left forgotten. Not that he had been complaining.

“Well then,” Fenris finally gave a comment and returned to his book, “you better start to think of an excuse.”

He heard Hawke letting out a small grunt. “I’m literally rummaging inside my brain right now. What else should I tell them—that my mabari got sick and I had to look after him?”

“You already used that last time.”

“Hmm… I have no dress to wear because Dante chewed on all of them?”

“They would only lend you a new dress.”

“Ah, that’s right. Let’s see—Merrill lost her ball of twine and I had to accompany Dante to help her find it.”

“No.”

“Dante left dog poop around the house and I had to clean the entire estate.”

He turned to her, again. “Hawke.”

“Oh! Oh! I was walking Dante around the streets when he suddenly ran loose after encountering a female mabari and I had to chase him all the way to Darktown.”

Fenris snorted, an amused expression crossed over his face, the corner of his mouth involuntarily quirked upwards to form a half-smile. This woman and her quips. He would never be able to understand how in the Void she could ever produce such atrocious, if not also incomprehensible, notion of wit; which he must admit was entertaining in its own surprising ways.

Meanwhile, Hawke was looking at him, head slightly tilted. “You’re laughing at me,” she said, not quite an accusation but rather a statement.

“I am not,” he quickly countered, even though the evident growing smile on his lips told otherwise, and of course it didn’t fool her.

Her eyes narrowed, but her lips had widened into a grin he was so much familiar with. “Oh? Is that not a smile I see on your face?”

“I may be laughing, but I never say I’m laughing at _you_.”

“Hmm, that’s a shame…” She feigned a disappointed frown. “And here I am making a fool of myself, simply to coax a laughter from a handsome elf.”

Fenris couldn’t help but laugh at that. He closed his book and put it aside on a cabinet nearby before shifting in his seat to face Hawke directly, meeting her gaze. “Fine,” he declared, “Congratulations. Consider all your efforts didn't go to waste.”

“Oh, how satisfying.” Hawke laughed heartily, leaning in to rest her elbows on her thighs. “But just so you know, I am still thinking on whatever made-up reason I should come up for these—” she gestured dismissively over the stack of invitations on the desk, “—balderdash.”

His eyes lingered at the papers for a brief moment, before flicking back to meet her eyes. “Certainly not with all those… questionable stories, I suppose.”

“Why not? In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to go with ‘dog poop around the house’.”

“ _Hawke_.”

“I know it’s hilariously absurd, but it’s still quite believable, don’t you think?”

Fenris sighed and shook his head. “I see Varric's peculiar habits have rubbed off on you.”

Hawke snickered and rolled her eyes. “Please. My technique in bullshiting is much tamer compared to his. He’d probably use the opportunity to straight up tell them Dante and I got lost in the Fade or something.”

“You seriously expect these people to believe that?”

“Surprisingly, so far they always do. In fact, I think the more absurd it goes down, the more impressed they are.”

“But why must all of these stories include your hound?”

“Apparently most people here have a soft spot for him,” she stated, shrugging. “He’s a charming boy! Tell me at least you’d agree on that one.”

“Of course,” he responded with a nod, before the corners of his lips tugged into a thin smile, “no doubt courtesy of his mistress’ exquisite charm.”

Hawke laughed again. “Is that flattery?” she asked him, bright blue eyes lit up with glee.

Fenris then pulled himself to his feet. “Do you not approve?” he asked her lightly as he took steady steps towards her, crossing the space between them.

“I do approve. Very much so,” she replied, mirth in her tone, as Fenris stopped just in front of her, and she lifted her face to meet his green eyes. She raised one finger to poke him in the chest, her grin broadening, and crooned, “Especially when it comes from you, oh broody lover of mine.”

He leaned forward, placing both hands on each space of the desk beside Hawke’s hips, effectively securing her body right in the middle, and he could feel her tense up under the proximity. “Shall I do it more often, then?” Fenris murmured, his voice low, as he continued to hold her gaze.

Months after their reconciliation, he’d learned of interesting reactions Hawke would show every time he dropped his voice into a certain level, and up close he could saw the effect instantly. A smirk was playing over his mouth when he observed how she drew in a short breath, her eyes went dark with blue ringlets around them, an enthralled, almost dreamy look on her face.

It took a moment before she found her voice back. “I must say, Fenris...” Hawke said, sliding her hands up his arms, warm palms gliding across his skin slowly, careful enough not to cause too much pressure against his markings. Fenris marveled at her touch, enjoying how her delicate fingers left a trail of pleasant, warm sensation over his skin before passing through his shoulders in a smooth stroke, and finally linked them together around his neck. “... your flattery has definitely improved _a lot_ lately.”

He hummed, oddly feeling a sense of pride. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“It _is_ a compliment,” Hawke breathed as Fenris brought one hand to slide upward and rested at her hip. “In fact—”

She then slowly parted her legs. Fenris’ green eyes monitored every movement she made to the slightest, and that particular gesture—combined with the sight of the edge of her skirt gradually inched upwards due to the motion to reveal pale, creamy thighs—successfully sent a pulsing heat throughout his body.

Hawke flashed him a coy smile, before continuing, “—let me _show_ you the compliment you deserve.”

His heart drummed inside his chest, and his breath quickened as she tugged at him to move closer. “You have no subtlety, woman,” Fenris growled under his breath, but he was already stepping closer to settle at the empty space between her thighs, pressing his body against hers, and a small groan escaped his mouth at how warm she felt.

“Yet I don’t hear you complain,” came Hawke’s response, the laughter might as well present in her voice, and before Fenris could come up with a retort she kissed him, and whatever word that he had attempted to form died out in his throat.

His eyes slipped closed, and soon he kissed her back, for a while the only sounds filling the entire library were their hushed, interchanging breaths. Their kiss was unhurried, slow, and Fenris didn’t object at all, intending to savor every moment, to remember every detail, every sensation enacted by the woman in his embrace.

On how warm her mouth was, lips felt soft and supple on his, as they had always been. The smooth strands of her hair that got entangled in-between his fingers when he cupped the back of her head to deepen the kiss. The sweet, soft smell of her lilac perfume as he nuzzled the column of her neck and inhaled her scent.

His hand traveled downward from her hip to her thigh in one languid stroke before ascending again, pushing the material of her skirt in process, her newly revealed skin soft against his calloused fingers, and once his hand moved along the inner side of her thigh to slide further upward it made her arch with a breathless moan, flushing her chest into his, both of her legs now hugging his waist. He loved it—loved how responsive her body reacted to his touch—loved the sounds she made when he deliberately ground his hips; her cries soft and barely a whisper, yet powerful enough to nearly snap the last thread of his carefully maintained control.

“Hawke,” he grunted when Hawke’s fingers began to work through the front laces of his trousers. “Hawke, do you—?”

“Yes,” she rasped, her breath ragged, but then pausing to look at him through her eyelashes. “Do you mind? We could—”

“Of course not. But you said tonight...”

“They can survive without me. I’ll think of something.”

And she did, later, as Hawke sat down on her chair and wrote a letter to the de Launcets, ignoring the messy scene the two of them had left all over the desk just earlier, and she sniggered at Fenris’ lifted eyebrow when he lazily hovered behind her to take a glimpse of her response.

She’d written a lighthearted apology followed with a short explanation, somewhere along the lines of _"something urgent just came up tonight that required my utmost and thorough attention, for the sake of my own well-being, Kirkwall’s future, and other undisclosed parties_ — _who I am proud to say are now left content and satisfied with the solution_. _"_

True enough, this time her mabari didn’t make any appearance.


End file.
